Duck race photos

Yet more photos from me. These are some I took at the annual duck race. For the uninitiated, a duck race works as follows:

1. Take a load of rubber ducks.
2. Bet on which duck will win.
3. Chuck the ducks in a river.
4. Note which ones reach the finish first.
5. Fish them all out again.
6. Award prizes.
7. Go home.

But I digress. On with the pictures! A big pile of ducks. Top of the heap. The stragglers.

Flippin' Eck!

Opened my blind a few minutes ago and the countryside is covered in snow! What is this place coming to? Snowfalls in March? On Easter Sunday? Even I can't help thinking that someone is having a laugh. Quite what bearing this might have on our Easter Egg Hunt I don't know. Old dullard that I am, I will only be joint organising this year's festivities, but whether we really want our sole contestant scrabbling around in the snow trying to find a clue is rather doubtful. So indoors it may have to be.

I read by means of the BBC News RSS feed that the situation is so bad as to merit a weather warning, which is more than slightly unnerving. I also read that a seaside hotel has caught on fire, bishops are getting a little hot under the dog-collar about embryo research and that Staffordshire police are spoilt for choice with five different murder suspects from whom to take their pick. The mind boggles.

Damned statistics!

The question of statistics is, without question, an oft visited topic, but what sort of bearing does that really have on a rural teenage schoolboy? A very good question, and the blunt answer is 'The wrong sort'. At the very moment I write this, I am surrounded by people who, on a daily basis, can and will spout out, argue over and compare numbers and facts containing not the slightest meaning to the uninitiated.

Let us start with probably the most recent and divisive statistical craze to hit us around here, that of the trading cards called 'Match Attacks'. The basic premise of these is based, not altogether surprisingly, around football. Each card depicts a footballer and quotes their estimated 'Attack' and 'Defence', the calculation of which is beyond me. I would put the entire number of different players available somewhere in the quadrillions, and the number grows alarmingly. As one might suspect, they can also be traded for other cards, either to get some better numbers or just to build one's collection. There is, apparently an associated game on top of all this, but I am unable to say very much about it.

But, as I mentioned earlier, the worst part is that the very mention of the words 'Match Attack' will cause an explosively wide range of reactions. Some love it and play it with wild abandon, others despise it with a passion. So much so, in fact, that there exists an 'Anti Match Attack League' that actively encourages the destruction of cards. Being a stalwart fence-sitter it doesn't really bother me either way, although if I could turn a corner just once and fail to find a single card awaiting me then it would probably please me quite a lot.

Even worse than these on the 'my pointless number is bigger than yours' front, however, are those maddening and almost unbelievably lucrative trading card and media franchises such as Pokemon and Yu-Gi-Oh. I quote for you here an imaginary, but not entirely implausible, conversation between two fans: "Hi! Do you play Me-No-Good?" "Why yes, as a matter of fact. Fancy a game?" "Of course! You start." "Right. I'll play Mr Bun the Baker. That's two Basic Paperclips to me." "Curse you! Now it's my turn..." [Some time later] "Ha! My Triple-Conjoined Tyrannosaur beats your Mega Sardine of Doom! 9847583758 Bing-Bong points!" "You *@%$£^~!" "Just surrender now, and avoid a slow and painful defeat!" "I'm not done yet! Take a look at my Double Pikachu with added Wham-Wham!" "Flipping ^*%@!!" "Plus that means I can play my Inverse Riffle-Shuffle, gaining me an extra 13842237834467 Bing-Bong Points and a Quadruple Cheese Grater! I win!" "Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh!" "Well, there we are then. Good game, eh, old chap?" "Yes, old man. Splendid."

You see what I mean by 'pointless numbers'? Who would have thought it was possible to gain so much joy from such a premise?

Dragon Building for Dummies

For a little while, I had wondered what I was going to talk about. And then,
it occurred to me:

Dragon tails!

No, I'm not mad. Or rather I am usually, but not this time. No, I'm going to
tell you how to make the tails of dragons, the perfect props for any play (so
long as it involves chopping the extremities of large fictional lizards).

You will need:
Lots of chicken wire
Lots of patience
Lots of Mod-Roc

N.B: Mod-Roc is a cotton mesh coated in a substance that, when wetted and
left to dry, works just like plaster of Paris. It's a lot easier to use than
the normal stuff, because it comes in huge long sheets. And it's brilliant.

What to do:
1. Take a fair amount of chicken wire and roll it into a cone or tail shape.
2. Secure the shape by snipping the wire and twisting it around itself.
3. Cut off a piece of Mod-Roc in a size that suits your needs.
4. Stick your Mod-Roc onto the chicken wire where you want it.
5. At the edges of your piece of Mod-Roc, tuck it into the chicken wire so it
doesn't dangle down too badly.
6. Repeat steps 3-5 until the top part of the chicken wire is finished.
7. Turn over when dry.
8. Repeat 3-5 yet again on bottom part until finished.
9. Over the open end of the cone, drape more pieces of wet Mod-Roc.
10. When dry, completely cover open end.
11. Paint when completely dried.

Optionally, you can also glue on cardboard spines before painting and put
Mod-Roc on these, too.

So if you ever need the tail chopping off a dragon, you know what to do!

Out and about with a camera

Some pictures taken around the place, largely near my house. I hope you like them. Welford church, a round-tower one. These are fairly rare, or so I am told. Some snowdrops in Welford park. The place is covered in them. Daffodils at my school, in the garden.

Music matters

No more Mr. Nice-Guy*, time to air some opinions!
Recently, a thought trickled (that being about their maximum speed as far as
my brain is concerned) from the deepest recesses of my mind to what - in a
completely non anatomical way - could be called the forefront of my
consciousness. It could roughly be described as follows: I am interested in
music.
Pretty dull, you may think, and I would be very much inclined to agree with
you on that point. But up until now I hadn't really noticed it. I'd hear
something on the radio, and I'd think: 'Hmm, nice music' or 'Hmm, not so
nice, music'; and that was about it. But actually, I actively enjoy
listening. Or at least, sometimes I do. For instance, these are what might
put me off.

1. 'Choo' - or something of that ilk, replacing 'you'.
2. Random key changes, although usually these just make me groan a little.
3. Pathetic scansion in lyrics.
4. Not even singing.
5. lots more, sadly...

You know what I'm grasping at? You're doing better than most people I talk
to.

* If I ever was what you might call 'Mr. Nice-Guy', that is.

Part Nine: May contain spirits

“So,” the medium sneered nastily, “we have a murderer do we?” It was a little later that morning and Mr. Torrall seemed to be regretting his choice of the cheapest medium available. She was a wizened old crone of at least 150, the perfect spiritual-contactor stereotype, but that only unsettled the staff further. As far as they were concerned, superstition was for those too dim to understand science. Mr. Torrall, however, seemed perfectly capable of handling the situation himself. “Yes, that’s right,” he said slowly and patronisingly. “We’d like you to work out who it is.” “I know that, fool!” she snapped. “Age isn’t everything, you know! Now let me see…” There was a long pause. “Well?” said Mr. Torrall, impatiently twirling his moustache. “The killer has facial hair,” Mr. Torrall adjusted his tweed jacket; “is well suited,” Mr. Torrall wiped the sweat off his balding head, “has a receding hairline…” Suddenly, Mr. Torrall sprang up. “Wait a minute,” he cried in indignation, “that’s me!” “Yes,” the medium shrieked, rising from her seat as well, “murderer!” “But it was my half day!” Mr. Torrall protested. “I was out fishing!” “Exactly!” shrieked the medium again. “Murderer!” “No, you don’t understand,” broke in the headmaster, feeling it was his job to intervene. “We want someone who murders people, not fish!” “You must be specific in what you require from the spirits!” she replied, looking offended. “No, there are no ‘people-murderers’ here. But there is something strong, something that drowns out all other spiritual voices.” “What is it?” said the head nervously, despite his intuition. “I cannot tell,” she replied, concentrating hard. “It is all around us, like a great spiritual screaming!” The head, who had had quite enough of this mumbo-jumbo, decided he ought to make a move. “Well, thank you very much,” he said hastily, a hint of uneasiness in his voice. “We’ll remember you if we ever need some more ‘guidance from the spirits’,” he added, enunciating the inverted commas to perfection. The medium scowled briefly, and then swept out of the room. Silently, so as not to offend Mr. Torrall, the staff breathed a collective sigh of relief. This was in fact unnecessary, as Mr. Torrall was already very much offended and had gone off the idea of mediums altogether.